This, of course, is a lie, but I play along. “Makeup hides a lot,” I respond.”
“Your hair isn’t even gray,” comes next.
I lean in and whisper, “Haven’t you heard? They have stuff for that now.”
I wink. They nod. We understand each other.
I’m sixty years old, a mother of seven and a grandma twenty one times over. I even have four great-grands, but it gets really confusing talking about those. I’ve earned my gray hairs, every single one of them, but I don’t want to flaunt them.
I’m not trying to look younger. It’s not that at all. I’m not embarrassed about my age. I just don’t happen to like gray hair. If it works for you, go for it. It just doesn’t work for me.
My mother-in-law felt that dying your hair was a little scandalous. She had lovely salt and pepper hair and it suited her. She was fond of saying, “If the good Lord had intended…” I have a million arguments for that one.
My mother was cut from a different color of cloth. She had dark brown hair when she was nearly eighty. She didn’t have a problem dying her hair. I guess I’m like my mom. I’ll take any color of hair, so long as it’s not gray.
Remember that old TV ad, “Only her hairdresser knows for sure?” Well now you all know.
My hairdresser and I have scheduling issues. We’re both busy and our schedules don’t always match up. My roots grow out fast, and I don’t like them to show, so yesterday Friend-husband did my roots. We did it together, really. I can do the front, but not the back.
It’s a little darker than I like, but at least it’s not gray. The awesome thing is, I found out how much Friend-husband loves me.
He loves me enough to dye for me.